


carpaccio

by Comedia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism-ish, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Metaphors, Mind Games, Murder Husbands, Will Graham Knows, cannibal word play, eating meat, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28739913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comedia/pseuds/Comedia
Summary: Will hosts his first dinner with Hannibal.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	carpaccio

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote hannibal fic in 2021. why the fuck not

“Carpaccio?” Will asks, tilting his head, studying the spread on the kitchen counter. Red meat, black pepper, Sicilian lemons and parmesan cheese. Simplistic, but surely elegant once Hannibal is done with the plating.

“Indeed, an Italian delicacy”, Hannibal murmurs, preoccupied with slicing the meat ever so thinly.

“And you think our guests will enjoy it?” Will asks, not only on-the-nose about the implications of the meal, but very aware of his use of _“our guests”;_ a royal “we” seeping into the question. On the other hand, it’s not like Hannibal has ever been subtle with these types of things.

The question is enough to lure the hunter astray, his gaze snapping to Will in an instant, now uninterested in the meal preparation. Those stained-glass eyes pin Will with their unrelenting focus, their gleam almost nostalgic. “Why shouldn’t they appreciate this feast that we’ve prepared? Jack has never been dissatisfied with a meal that I’ve served him.”

“Oh, I’m sure”, Will muses. He pauses then, knowing there are only minutes until they have company. “You wished for me to decant the red wine, yes?”

A small smile at that; a knowing mimic of what would be expected of human comradery, except it never reaches the depth of those eyes – empty pools beneath a clear surface, a darkness so easy to find one’s reflection within.

Hannibal has a way of coaxing fascinating behaviour out of people. Will can’t remember the last time he felt so compelled to look into another person’s eyes and linger. It’s not that he always enjoys it, even now, there’s a sense of discomfort to Hannibal holding his gaze, and yet… Will seeks it out. Even when he doesn’t expressively ask for it – as if they could ever speak clearly about anything, as if either of them would be interested in replacing this charade with a harsh, direct reality – he invites it. Leaves enough breadcrumbs in the way he holds himself, in his choice of words, even in how he breathes, to lure Hannibal close – to have those eyes on him, watching, _seeing Will,_ and Will only.

He decants the wine, watching it swirl into a crystal bottle seemingly made for only this purpose. At times like these, Hannibal’s house seems like a living, breathing thing. The scents from the kitchen; iron and ash and buttery fats; the bursts of heat from an oven being opened; the huff of fresh herbs as a reduction is left to simmer.

For a moment Will is alone in the dining room, but only in a physical sense. He hasn’t been alone in his head for a long time now. Depending on the day, it’s not necessarily a comforting presence. He’s not foolish enough to think that he has tamed the raven stag, but he has seen it, identified it and identified with it. Well, in a sense he has at least tamed his own reactions to it; to this companionship that has manifested, both within him and in the physical world.

A simple table, set for four. Two hosts, a guest of honour, and a friend. Perhaps, from Jack and Alana’s point of view, it will be seen as a sort of coming out. Perhaps, from Will’s point of view, it is. He has not pondered it much, except the base components; a dinner, breaking of bread, sharing of meat, glasses raised in cheers of what’s to come. A new beginning, for all, no matter what form it takes.

Handshakes and hugs – standard greetings. Informality among friends. The red wine is poured – a rare thing for an aperitif, Jack remarks. A toast, _welcome,_ and then they take their seats.

Hannibal serves them, a plate each. Elegant sheets of beef, thin enough for the pattern of the French porcelain to be faintly visible through them. The red is accentuated by the bone white shavings of parmesan cheese, gleaming with a drizzle of olive oil and lemon – the zest already etching into the meat, a pattern of acid rivalling the carpaccio’s natural marbling.

“And what do we have here?” Jack asks, a smile on his face, delighted in the feast they’re about to partake in.

“An Italian dish”, Will replies, his voice strained, but as Alana and Jack turn to him, their surprise deliciously evident, he manages to steady his voice. “Carpaccio, named after a painter, of all things. Apparently, he mostly worked in reds and whites.”

From across the table, Hannibal watches the performance. As the others are turned from him, something creeps into his features. A tension in his shoulders, harsh creases at the corners of his eyes; crow’s feet feathering out into the dark shadows of the room. He doesn’t look amused. He looks ravenous. Will raises an eyebrow at him, tilting his head slightly as he speaks. “I guess only someone familiar with these things would be able to say whether the trivia I’m sharing is correct, or if I’m embarrassing myself?”

“Oh, I would never call myself an artist, Will”, Hannibal replies, voice smooth, except for how his voice drops on Will’s name – how he pronounces it like punctuation, rather than an endearment. “But yes, as far as I know, you are correct. This dish has quite a history, after all. The people involved in its conception is worth being spoken of.”

Will nods, sipping his wine, keeping his gaze on Hannibal over the rim of his glass. “I’m glad. I’ve only done rudimentary research – it’s nice to hear I’m not making a fool of myself. Then I assume I’m also correct in that it was invented for a countess? Her doctors had prescribed her to only eat raw meat.”

The reply does not come from Hannibal this time. Instead, Jack disrupts their back-and-forth with a disbelieving huff, yet he’s still smiling, clearly not only from the subject being discussed. “Do tell, why would raw meat be prescribed to someone as a form of medicine?”

Will laughs on cue, calculated, knowing – at least in a sense that he knows what’s expected of him in these sorts of interactions. “Oh, I have no clue. I would assume it has something to do with thinking that blood is good for your iron? I’m sure Hannibal could enlighten us on the subject. After all, he has much more experience to draw from.”

There’s no immediate reply. From across the table Will is met by a raised head, a defiant chin, and black eyes watching him – the empty pools of a dead lake, overgrown with algae and asphyxiated, not a chance of life within those dark meres. “Tell me Will, what exactly am I experienced in?”

Will is very much aware of their observant audience. Alana hesitant, analytical, and Jack intrigued – perhaps even entertained. Few people have gotten the chance to watch Will Graham partake in a courtship so publicly; there is no wonder they have their guest’s full attention. “Cooking, of course. And medical history, I would assume.”

What eggs Will on isn’t the idea of being publicly affectionate; to put on a show for friends and acquaintances. What he wonders is if they glimpse anything else during the evening. He thinks on the things that separates Hannibal’s universe so completely from the rest of the world; what they’re currently doing is, after all, something Hannibal has done for years – it’s a mirror of how he’s existed in the periphery all this time, a mockery of their psychological analysis and research – and there’s certainly a unique thrill to it.

Will would be lying if he claimed that his pulse didn’t quicken when he toys with the thought of how blatant one could be without anyone catching on.

“In that you are correct”, Hannibal finally says, and he lowers his head in a shallow show of concession, his eyes never leaving Will, and he punctuates the gesture with the faintest, knowing wink.

Will wonders for how long they’ve sat in silence. Their guests seem unbothered though, eating happily and whispering amongst themselves; _are they? No, don’t be hasty… but they must have? Could they? But isn’t that in poor taste for a psychiatrist to…?_ So distracted by gossip they pay no mind to the layers of the interaction taking place before them. Romance’s triumph over the violence of man, once again. Kissing and telling so much more intriguing than, say, knowing what’s on your plate.

Hannibal clears his throat then, a smile framing his otherwise monotone words. “I thought you might be referring to how this particular piece of meat is something I’ve caught myself.”

“Oh?” Alana says, glancing at her plate with something like hesitation now.

“Venison”, Hannibal adds, slipping into a reassuring voice normally reserved for therapy. “Please do not worry, the meat is exemplary and the hunt was quick and efficient. I’m very particular in my methods.”

“I would say”, Will smirks now, sipping his wine, scraping up what’s left on his plate. “Venison is quite big game. A dangerous risk for something as simple as having dinner with friends.”

“I’m willing to take risks to reap this kind of reward.”

“Perhaps an unnecessary risk to hunt big game for a dish that was originally made with beef?” Will asks it innocently, knowing it might be read as an insult, even if he hasn’t been outright rude. At his question, Hannibal stands, sudden but still calculated – his body language anything from threatening, if it wasn’t for the sheer presence of him, stalking around the table as he collects the empty plates.

“I’ve never enjoyed simply leading cattle to slaughter”, Hannibal muses.

“No, that image certainly doesn’t suit you”, Will agrees, not turning to look at him, but instead enjoying his presence in the sound, the breath, the scent of him. “The hunt is the important part, isn’t it? To square off with something that has the chance to escape you, but doesn’t.”

Hannibal pauses by Will’s side, his hand reaching for the plate, but hovering, caught in the no man’s land where he could either continue playing host or reach for his dangerously talkative partner in crime. “Something like that. You’re simplifying it quite a bit though, Will.”

With that he disappears into the kitchen, and the second he’s gone from sight, Alana leans in close. “Is it rude to read this as you being official?”

Will turns to her, adjusting his glasses before he speaks. “Official how?”

“Dating”, she deadpans, uninterested in beating around the bush.

“This is not what we had in mind when we introduced the two of you”, Jack says, but it doesn’t sound like a reprimand – there’s something like laughter in his voice.

“What did you have in mind, Jack?” Will asks, licking his lips, taking his time to find the right words, before he continues speaking. Walking the razors edge. “Were we intended to assist each-other as colleagues, or set to devour each-other as men too similar to coexist?”

Alana leans back in her chair at that, a raised eyebrow as she ponders the question. Jack on the other hand chuckles, shaking his head. “So, help me god, it seems his sense of humor is horrifyingly infectious.”

“When did… well, all of this happen?” Alana asks, her words slow, lost in thought.

“I assume spending so many hours talking to a person like Hannibal might easily… get beneath your skin”, Jack says, winking at Will before he sips his wine.

Will averts his eyes, glancing at the dark surface of the table. “Something like that. I guess you could say he caught me.”

“On the contrary”, Hannibal says as he returns to the dining room, a silver tray in his hands. “It’s Will who ensnared me. I’ve never quite encountered a man who so easily slipped past the mask I put on for the world – for the patients and acquaintances – and saw me for who I truly am.”

“Likewise,” Will murmurs, not meeting anyone’s gaze, enjoying a moment of quiet, warm kinship. “Rarely has someone seen such potential in me and challenged me like you do.”

“Slow down, love birds”, Jack says, emptying his glass. “We don’t need the details of your relationship.”

“It does feel like it’s escalated fast, though?” Alana says, speaking slowly, vocalizing her thoughts perhaps more directly than she intended. She’s brought back to the present by Jack, gently and firmly, kicking her shins beneath the table. “But of course, a congratulation is of course in order!”

Hannnibal inclines his head at that, and without being prompted, Will gets to his feet to refill everyone’s glass. Only when he’s once again seated does Hannibal raise his glass, briefly looking around the table before his eyes settles on Will.

“A toast to Will, a man in whom I’ve found kinship and excitement. A man whom I’ve been pursuing for years, without knowing this is where it would lead me”, he starts, and it’s hard to know whether the pause is for the theatrics, or if he truly tries to find the right words. “Much like Sisyphus, the lives we lead are marred by repetition and routine, but having a partner in crime does introduce a wonderful unpredictability in the tedium. In fact, it has me wish to relive the glory days – as they say – with you by my side, if only to see my past through your eyes.”

“And to you”, Will replies, feeling the intense gazes of Alana and Jack upon him, like a physical thing that would distract him if it wasn’t for the sight of Hannibal, a towering, twisted mirror of himself at the other end of the table. “A man of sharp intellect and peculiar tastes. I’ve never stepped this far outside of my comfort zone before, and rarely have I been this challenged to piece together such a complex image of a person. Empathy only takes you so far, but you make up for it with your forceful nature and zest for life. I can, with utter certainty say, that you’re an utterly singular individual, and I’m honoured to have caught your eye.”

“The two of you sure will be an interesting thing to follow”, Jack muses as he gulps down his wine. “Reality TV will have nothing on you.”

Alana nods, a delayed thing, clearly deep in thought while trying to appear not to. “I’d be fascinated to hear what lead you here”, and she catches herself, shaking her head and smiling, as if amazed at her own audacity. “How you fell for each other, I mean. Some other time, of course. I assume there are other topics that you might prefer to talk about over dinner?”

Hannibal inclines his head, his version of a nod, and as the main course is served, conversation flows easy. Thankfully, there isn’t too many mentions of work and recent cases, nor is there too much overt psychoanalysis. Will can concentrate on his food, feeling relieved at only having to contribute to the conversation every now and then and still fulfilling his role as host.

Late into the night, they bid their friends adieu. Both of them stood on the porch, watching the bright red lights of the car disappear into the velvet darkness.

Will doesn’t close the door. Hannibal’s hand is spread against the dark wood, and he pushes it shut, closing the distance between them as he does so. That muscular body, hard and unforgiving, all awkward angles and imposing height, pushes Will flush against the door, and he breathes out, harshly, expectantly. Hannibal noses at his temple, his ear, before he buries his face in Will’s shoulder and breathes in, pushing into him as he does so, insistent, hard.

“Is this how you feel every time you host a dinner?” Will manages, pliant beneath Hannibal’s touch, intoxicated from the evening – riding a high of deception and exhibitionism.

“Thrilling, is it not?”

Will only hums in reply, pressing back against Hannibal, the bulk of him, the warmth and the sharp edges. Feeling him flush against his back, and pressing closer still.

Pushing this thing that they are as far as it can go – pushing like they’re just at the edge of a cliff, and he has barely enough strength to tip the both of them into the abyss. Into the void that Hannibal has designed for the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes i write short things on [tumblr](http://comediakaidanovsky.tumblr.com/) as well (but mostly i just cry about fictional characters), and i also have a messy af [twitter](https://twitter.com/comediafic)


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